And It's All in How You Mix the Two
by Shunned By The Multitude
Summary: In modern France, Emilie, a college art student, discovers a broken man in a street alley. Time passes, and her feelings towards the man begin to change. Will he forget the woman who left him behind, or will he continue to mourn her? Erik/Christine
1. Chapter 1

**And It's All in How You Mix the Two**

**A/N: **It's been two weeks, and after several technical errors, Ana's procrastination, and Marisa's crazy schedule, it's finally up! :D Welcome to And It's All in How You Mix the Two. We can't wait to hear what you think of the story- don't hesitate to rate and review, because we'd very much appreciate it. This story is modern and also an AU, but most original things are the same, we promise. :)

As for the rating, it's only rated M for later chapters... one of which I (Marisa) will _not _be participating in writing... I like being a good little Catholic girl. :D Ana will be handling that. Thank God.

As for a general explanation: check the summary. But here's some more.

We promise here and now that we are sworn E/C fans. Don't get scared away by the O/C!

Ana: There will be Raoul bashing in this story. Marisa: No, there won't be. One likes Raoul, one doesn't. We'll see who wins.

As far as the story goes, we have the whole thing planned out in a general storyline, but ideas are welcome in reviews or messages sent to our username. :)

Thanks so much for reading! :D

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Chapter One:

Paris at night—what a sight to behold. The bright lights of the city contrasted sharply against the yawning abyss of the night sky, nearly outshining the winking stars embedded in the velvet darkness. Below, in the bustling city, the crowd of tourists and veterans moved in one steady stream, as if they were on huge entity. A variety of people could be seen; male and female, young and old and those in between, those graced with the spirit of beauty and those who were not so fortunate. The list went on, but in the end, their glowing faces all meshed into a tapestry of emotion, whether it was simply a happy grin or a dismal frown, or the intricate weavings of surprise or barely concealed laughter.

So was the human race—a jumble of differences, but in the end, one and the same, living life in the throes of every emotion, every single one sliding across an upturned face, though some only expressed in the light or darkness of someone's eyes.

But what if a person had their emotions concealed and locked up, hidden behind the impenetrable surface of a mask?

What if these emotions had long lay dormant, then, with nearly no warning, suddenly burst from a heart that had long ago been destroyed, like a great flood of passion and horror?

Some would say this would make the person a monster—long ago forgotten by society and hiding in their own terrorized mind. It would be a sight to see, indeed; a human being, so stricken with the suppressed emotion that had suddenly burst from them with such a force to leave them breathless, curled up in the fetal position in a gutter or an alley, sobs wracking their already-spent body.

And that is _exactly_ what Émilie Roche saw as she stood at the very end of an alley next to an opera house: a figure curled into a ball next to a Dumpster, back turned to her, and misery shuddering along their frame. From what she could tell, the figure was male—a broad back and shoulders convinced her of that. She could see the back of his head, and either he was wearing a hat, or his hair was a rich shade of dark chocolate, the color nearly black.

"Excuse me… uh, sir, but are you okay?" she asked in English, in case he was a tourist that had taken a wrong turn.

The broken, shuddering cries halted for a brief moment before the man slowly uncurled himself, risking a glance over his left shoulder. From what she could see, the man was certainly attractive, a perfectly slanted eyebrow lowered over the most unique eye she had ever seen. The shade was a scorching gold, the color burning in the shadows of the alley. It tapered off to a softer amber at the edge of the iris, though his narrowed, depressed glare had hardened the edge. The beginning of a straight nose could be seen over his cloaked shoulder, and then he glanced away, content to ignore the sudden obstruction in his emotional decline.

He didn't bother to answer, because to be honest, he didn't want some insolent girl to help him. She looked nothing like who he was currently mourning—instead of long, curly, brunette locks, this girl had shoulder-length, wavy, dark hair, parted to the side. Her eyes were deep and brown, concern radiating from the center, unlike the hurt, angered, jade ones that filled his vision. This girl was thin as well, almost as much as Chris—

"No," Erik muttered aloud in French, unaware of whether or not he had answered the girl's question. He placed his right hand over his face as the salty betrayal of emotion trickled down his face, the rivers newly inspired by his spiral into misery.

"Is there anything I can do?" Émilie asked, switching back to French, and her voice taking on the soothing, gentle tones one normally associates with motherhood. However, her kind tone did nothing to him besides cause his anger to spike into a dangerous region.

"I don't need help from little girls with perfect lives," he hissed, turning his burning, gold gaze to her. "No. In fact, I am much better off alone to mourn the loss of my only tether to this cruel mockery that goes by the name of life," he continued, and she saw his cheeks lift slightly into a bitter smile, though the expression only hardened his golden-hued eyes into the unbreakable surface of a statue.

To say she was speechless was an understatement. This man, who she didn't even know, had just put all of life's miseries and depressions into merely two sentences. Based on the sound of his voice, she could easily place him in some kind of musical career. Even with him just talking, his voice was deep and smooth, almost as if he had been singing instead of hissing hateful things at her. And that snapped her out of her thoughts, and she slid her eyes to his figure, though he was turned away from her again.

"Listen. I don't know what happened to you, but I just want to help you. So please—"

"Enough." That one word had so much weariness and hurt in it that she stopped short, her eyes widening as she could almost feel the prickling of tears behind her eyelids. When she listened closely, she could hear sounds of quiet crying—and yes, it must have been coming from him, for though she was close, she wasn't the one who had tears leaking from her eyes.

Before she knew what she was doing, Émilie was at the end of the alley with the mysterious, broken man she had tried to reason with. Her hand found his muscled arm, giving it a gentle tug upwards. The crying ceased for a moment, and the man shifted his face in his hands. To her surprise, he rose to his feet unsteadily, muttering a curse in French under his hand, which covered the entire right side of his face.

She would have called it compassion, but Émilie really didn't know what had possessed her to help the poor, miserable man she had discovered in the alley. She supported his left side as they stumbled out of the alley together, several tears dropping onto her hand as the man continued to cry. She directed them into the still-steady stream of people, leading the way towards her small apartment down the street.

It was going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

**And It's All In How You Mix the Two**

**A/N: Sorry this took so long… there was laziness, holidays, and surgery going on. So for those that are reading, our apologies. :/ But now that all my (Marisa's) tumor business is done, we can write and post more often. Woooo. :D **

**Hope you enjoy this next chapter, and please rate and review, we'd appreciate it very much.**

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Chapter Two:

Émilie stumbled under the growing burden leaning on her arm. The weary, flickering streetlight outside of her apartment building was slowly getting closer. She took in a shuddering breath, and at the same time, the man leaning on her gasped, a fresh wave of salty emotion coursing down his face, leaking through the fingers of his right hand that covered his handsome face. The crowds of Parisians passing them gave no sign of shock, or any notice at all. None offered help when Émilie nearly fell against the rusty light pole when the man collapsed against her tiny body. Not one person asked what was wrong when he howled in agony for no apparent reason. Émilie felt tears of her own trickle from behind her fluttering eyelids out of frustration and sympathy.

When they reached the weathered, green door, she quickly wiped her hand under her eyes and jammed it into the pocket of her jeans, trying to support the dead weight on her arm and retrieve the door key simultaneously. Finally locating the tiny key in the folds of her pocket, she unlocked the door and ushered the so-far-nameless man into her apartment. She steered him to the sofa, sitting him down and immediately feeling her shoulder and the muscles of her arm begin to ache. She gripped it gingerly, holding it upright as she studied the man in continued agony on her sofa. Finally, she said, "What's your name?" She watched him, not expecting an answer right away, but he didn't even attempt to respond. She asked again: "What's your name?" No answer. Émilie let out a frustrated sigh. "I'm getting you a bowl of soup. Please stay here, okay?" Still no answer, even with the offer of a hot bowl of soup. She turned on her heel and made to stride into the tiny kitchen of her apartment when she heard the weary, familiar voice._ I've known him for twenty minutes! How can his voice be familiar already?_ her mind screamed.

"Erik." Émilie skidded to a stop and turned slowly to face the back of his head. "My name… is Erik." His shoulders did not move as he spoke. For now, the endless tears had stopped, but Émilie knew they had only given way to a miserable shock.

She knew there was nothing she could do or say to console him, but she could not stop herself from walking back to him and laying a paint-stained hand on his broad shoulder. "Je suis desolé." I'm sorry. It was all she could say, especially not knowing the cause of his miseries. Erik said nothing, and Émilie's hand slid off his shoulder as she turned back to the kitchen.

It wasn't until after she left that Erik removed his hand from his face and revealed an icy blue eye, surrounded by inflamed, pink flesh that ruined his otherwise impeccable face. The pale, steely iris was a stark contrast to the smooth, golden shade of his other, the difference as sharp as the two halves of his face; the scarred half and the pure embodiment of flawlessness. Its cavities were plentiful, further destroying his face. The mottled ear made it worse, a complete opposite of the perfection that was the left side of his face.

"_Christine… Christine…_" The murmured song drifted to Émilie's position in front of the stove. The soup gurgled quietly as the singing tapered off to half-screams. She almost burned herself pouring the soup into a bowl. Walking carefully to the couch, she placed the bowl in his lap.

"Soup," was all she said, and then she left him alone. Her curiosity was gone; obviously, he'd been dumped by this Christine girl. _But why is he so broken over it? What was their bond? _she thought as she closed the door to her bedroom. She shook her head. Émilie was due for a shower, and she was going to get one, Erik be damned.

He considered throwing the bowl aside after once again lowering his hand from his disfigurement. (Erik was gifted with perfect hearing, and by the second footstep out of the kitchen, he had stopped his vocalizations long enough to cover his face.) Erik was never a reasonable man when it came to his emotions, especially when Christine was tangled in them.

Émilie had left him alone for now, and he wouldn't say he was grateful, but being away from women in general was best for now. The night's events would not leave his memory. "Christine!" he shouted, the sound twisting into a painful groan. "_Christine!_" His hand slammed onto the cluttered coffee table, scattering a myriad of art supplies. Papers fluttered to the ground, paint brushes shot off the edge of the table, but a package of white clay stayed firmly on the closest corner. Erik eyed it with both a wariness and a growing fear.

An hour later, Émilie peeked out from her door into the front room. Erik was slumped across the couch, his hands curled around his rib cage, a painful expression on half of his face. The other half was covered in a crude half mask, the white clay obviously not ideal for it, but functional.

She had no idea what he was hiding, but she wanted to help him. With a slight, tired smile, she closed her bedroom door.


	3. Chapter 3

**And It's All In How You Mix The Two**

**A/N: It's me (Ana) here this time. I wrote up this chapter one day during Spanish when I was supposed to be studying for a Midterm. Not the best way to use my time, but hey, at least I got this chapter done. Since my co-writer and friend wasn't in the same class, I wrote it by myself. This story will be picking up right after this, so never fear. Something's definitely going to happen.**

**Enjoy.**

Armed with the knowledge that Erik was still sitting out in her living room, Émilie could not let herself succumb to her body's yearning for some form of rest. Despite the thick, icy tendrils of fear and worry that were slowly suffocating her rapidly beating heart, she wanted to help him. And help she was going to, fear be damned. With a short, rapid huff, she swung her bedroom door open and trotted to the small table in front of the couch, halting in front of the anguished man. With a slight start, she also came to realize she had never properly introduced herself after he so softly emitted his own name. _How rude_, she thought, then fidgeted slightly, hoping he didn't catch the miniscule movement. _I'll just introduce myself now_, she decided, but a darker portion of her mind whispered, _Even though you fear just the slightest contact with him?_

Erik studied the small twitch, and he gazed up at Émilie with agonized eyes, his sharp features arranged into a displeased frown. Now, at least, he could stare at the girl head-on, the marred, twisted mockery of a face hidden beneath a thick layer of white clay. The substance was rough enough against the slight coating of stubble across his face to be an actual pain; though, in truth, the physical hurt distracted him, if only barely, from the emotional wounds inflicted upon him.

Finally, Émilie spoke, "I'm Émilie. Émilie Roche." A small, delicate smile passed across her kind face, and she hoped to appease him. She observed this man, this "Erik," as he slowly looked away from her, turning the masked side of his face in her direction. She took this action as an understanding, and that made one of them. She had no idea what she was doing with this despairing man, or how she would take care of him. He did not want to eat her soup, or speak, much less even look at her, which proved to be a challenge. _Don't forget the mask. And why, pray tell, was he hiding his face from you? Perhaps he resembles a demon, one that would rip your throat out in a heartbeat?_ Her mind whispered cruelly, intent on swaying her from her course. She shook her head sharply, however, shutting her eyes briefly while she erased to poisonous tone of her logical mind. Her auburn eyes fluttered open, and she studied the mask thoroughly, trying to guess the measurements of his face.

The clay replica fit crudely over the planes of his profile, and only served as a temporary cover—that much she could discern instantly. It barely clung to his weary face, and likely needled against the stubble coating his strong jaw. The eyehole was small and slanted, only the very inside of a golden iris and the large pool of a midnight pupil available for viewing. The edges dipped and curved against his ebony hairline and the beginning of a rounded ear, while the opposite side rose unevenly over the left of his nose and downturned mouth. Bumps and grooves ran along the surface of its front, but that was unsurprising, given the time of only fifteen minutes he had to prepare it.

Suddenly, Erik's face whipped towards her, and stared at her with cold eyes, the irises resembling solid amber. His small frown creased into a downright scowl, those nearly perfect lips appearing malformed with the power of his expression. However, what he said next nearly made her gasp in surprise, all fear forgotten.

"A pleasure," Erik ground out through gritted teeth, his voice rough. Immediately, he glanced away, unaware as to why he was forcing pleasantries with this woman. He had never done so before, not even with _her_, so why begin now? The answer eluded him, and though he tried to grasp it, the feeling was much like trying to hold mist. It just slipped through your fingers. His eyes narrowed, and he continued to glare out the large apartment window, cataloguing all the sights and moving images of modern Paris. With a fleeting, random thought, he realized how much he missed the Opera Populaire, though he would never admit it, not to anyone. The winding corridors, the secret trapdoors, the rows and rows of velvet seats. The large, ruby-red curtains, the golden statues lining the very top of the set, along with all the well-furnished balconies and bright lights. The roof of the opera house bore Greek statues, their faces blank and stony, with no feeling etched into them. Yet, somehow, they were beautiful, and Erik carefully maneuvered his thoughts away from Apollo's lyre; no, the pain of that certain memory was far too great.

"Erik…Erik!" Émilie was trying to get his attention, but to no avail. He was lost among the pounding waves of his thoughts; his eyes had glazed over and were very much blank. Thought somewhere, deep within, she saw a fine layer of nostalgia, as if he were recalling a fond memory. Then why, oh why, should she bother him? As a man of such secrecy and a broken life, he must have had very few good memories, and the fact that he could even find one was astounding in itself. Just a little while ago he had been crying, but now, he was recalling something pleasing? Her mind tried to seduce her into believing something was wrong with this, but she refused to listen, instead blocking it out.

Erik closed his eyes, continuing to study the grand building within his mind's eye. But, as with everything on this planet, good things must end. Without warning, his carefully built barriers around all things to do with _her_ splintered and broke, crumbling into pieces. As soon as his brain had settled on the stage, _she_ had appeared in all her innocent, otherworldly glory. _Everything _flooded his mind, and his eyes flew open, panicked and horrified. He abruptly stood, then sank back down, his mouth opening to utter her name.

"_Christine._" Émilie had retreated to the other side of the small wooden table in front of the sofa, but relaxed slightly when he didn't attack or make any other sudden movements.

"Erik? Are you…um, okay?" she asked, hesitating and stuttering over the simple question. His sudden outburst had both frightened and surprised her, and there was no doubt that this man was powerful and could be dangerous at the slightest distaste. Now, though, he seemed to be back to his hollow, despairing self. When she received neither answer nor reply, she continued, determined to help him. "Considering it's nearly midnight, you and I both need sleep. I'll get blankets and pillows for you to sleep here, though I don't have men's clothes for you to wear, so you'll have to make do with what you already have." She quickly strode out of the room to collect everything, and Erik studied her with his peripheral vision, taking note of the slight grace with which she moved. He hunched back over his legs and rested his elbows on his knees, his chin placed over his interlocked hands. In the silence, he could hear a clock ticking, and he counted the number of seconds until she got back. He halted at one hundred forty-eight when she reappeared, and she placed two pillows and a variety of blankets beside him, considering the fact that he may require perfection.

Erik said nothing, though his brilliant eyes fixed on her cocoa ones, and somehow, his cautious thankfulness radiated through. Émilie gave him the tiniest smile, and he looked away, studying the blankets beside him.

"Well, goodnight. If you need anything, feel free to find it," said, before turning and heading back to her bedroom. She left the door barely open, a tiny sliver revealing Erik still sitting on the couch, unmoving as marble. She gave a slight sigh before going to the bathroom to prepare for sleep. She completed her nightly ritual of cleansing and changing, and then slid into the cool sheets upon her bed, giving a slight shiver at the temperature. Though her mind raced with an infinite number of thoughts she was soon asleep, her breathing evening out quickly.

Erik listened quietly, then stood and paced to the window, letting himself rebuild the walls around his memories while he studied late-night Paris yet again.

It was a sweet relief, for at least a few moments of his ruined life.


End file.
